Night Terrors
by YoullJustHavetoDeal
Summary: Jack Winchester is a young hunter contemplating a solution of the crossroads to get his older brother out of Hell, but with the appearance of Eva Lightner, a girl with nightmares in which he is the star, he comes to realize that higher beings than demons may be at work.


_**Hey everyone. This is my new story, also a Supernatural fanfiction, and I couldn't wait to publish it. It's just . . . I'm so excited about it oh my gosh. Okay, I hope you all enjoy it.**_

_**I do not own Supernatural.**_

**1**

Burning.

The sensation flows down my throat with the alcohol as I sit here. I can't help but think of him, think of my older brother.

My older brother. _Dead._

Dean is _dead_.

I clench my hand around the glass and take another swig, grimacing at the taste. It didn't make the pain go away; I knew it didn't. The alcohol doesn't even make me forget the pain.

It just keeps me from processing it properly until I'm sober again, and that's all I ask for. Just a little relief from this torment.

_My brother is dead_.

I feel the bile rise in my throat and tears at the back of my eyes, and I'm suddenly pushing the stool out from behind me and making my way towards the men's. I shove past the people in the crowded bar, grimacing at the loud country music blasting over the speakers.

_He's gone, Jack._

I choke as I shove the door open, but I try to disguise it as a cough. The last thing I need is to draw attention to myself by having a full-out mental breakdown. The stall door is cold against my heated palm, and the tile of the bathroom floor is hard and rough on my knees.

Maybe there's a spell. Maybe I could bring him back. A deal? Could I make a deal? Sam had left his body unburned.

His body. The body that was shredded to ribbons by hellhounds.

Vomit is suddenly spewing from my mouth into the porcelain basin in front of me. If I bring him back through a deal, his body will be healed, but a spell . . . I had no clue. And demons probably aren't too keen on losing a Winchester, even if they get another in return.

I unroll some of the toilet paper beside me and wipe vomit off of my mouth. Then I throw the soiled tissue into the toilet, following with a flush. Slowly, I stand up and turn to wash my hands in the sink outside of the stall.

The fluorescent lights of the bathroom somehow blind me, so I ignore them, washing my hands quickly. I splash a bit of water on my face, feeling the cool drops bring me back to sobriety. The music still blasts in the bar, filling the bathroom with a continuous buzzing sound.

I would make a deal. There's no hurt in trying, especially if it would get my brother back, tear him away from his suffering.

I dry my hands with a paper towel and then exit the stinking restroom, making my way back towards the bar. I'm quick to pay the bill and start out towards my car.

The rain slapping the pavement is the first thing I notice once I walk outside. Even though it's May, the April showers still haven't seemed to quite grasped the whole picture. I let a grimace slip across my lips and start towards my car — a '78 Firebird that I'd gotten from Bobby after . . .

I feel my stomach drop to my toes at the thought of Bobby and of Sam. I wouldn't go see Sam. Maybe I would call him, but if I went to see him, he would catch on. I would go to see Bobby, though. Just one last time.

I reach for my keys in my pocket, but I'm interrupted by a noise from behind the bar. The thuds of skin against skin reach my ears, and I almost ignore it, pulling my key out and jamming it into the slot.

_Probably a bar fight taken outside._

"Leave me alone!" a voice cries from the scuffle, and I tense, noticing its feminine sound. The rain — or maybe a hand — muffles her next words, but a few come out clearly. " . . . don't know _anything_. I . . . Help!"

I'm moving towards the noises before I can even think about what I'm doing. Another thud sounds, followed by a yelp.

I turn the corner, laying my eyes on the sight in front of me. A girl being pulled up to a kneeling position by the hand tangled in her silver-dyed hair. Her hands are out at her assailant, pushing and shoving at him as he jerks her head back and forth. I quickly notice her black eye and bruised forearms. Her busted lip is also a sign of the treatment she's been given.

"Hey!" I yell, my voice gruff from the flaring anger and alcohol, but my mind now completely sobered up.

The jerking stops, along with the man's muttered threats, and his eyes turn towards me, flashing pitch black for only a second. "Ah, a Winchester," the demon sneers. His gaze moves back down to the girl, and he pulls her to a standing position. She's slightly slumped, out of exhaustion, I would imagine. Still holding her by her hair, the demon spits his next words into her face. "Looks like I won't be needing you after all."

The next thing the girl does shocks me to the core. She doesn't scream, doesn't cry. No, she spits in his face.

My eyes widen, and an exorcism is soon leaving my lips. She has no idea what she's doing; she'll be dead.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas," I start, and the demon drops the girl, her body making thudding noises on the pavement and splashing water in the puddle she landed in. I soon hear her scrambling back towards the wall of the bar.

The demon's eyes flash back to a human color, and I catch the fear hidden in them. Being exorcised is about as bad as being dead for demons, and I can tell that this one's about to take off. Yes, I rather the ungodly things be exorcised, but leaving is alright at the moment, considering I am lacking a devil's trap.

The black smoke fills the air in the next moment, swirling and trying to find a way to exit, and I sigh, watching it run its course as the rain pelts down on me. Soon enough, the demon is absent, and the possessed man's body drops to the black pavement, blood oozing through his white t-shirt from wounds that the demon had kept hidden.

Dead.

My eyes turn on the girl against the bar's brick wall, and I take a few steps toward her. She presses herself more into the bricks, and shakes her head. I stop my steps, puzzled, and only watch her.

Her body is shaking, maybe with fear, but also maybe with the cold of the rain. She's only wearing a tank top, shorts, and brown boots. Her grey eyes dart everywhere — everywhere except for my direction, and she's running her hands through her weird-colored, tangled hair.

I take note of her busted lips — yes, both of them — her black eye, opposite swollen cheek, bruised forearms, and scraped knees. That demon really did a number on her.

Cautiously, I let the words fall from my lips. "Can I help you?"

Her striking eyes catch mine, and my breath hitches in my throat. There's so much there, so much pain. So much that not even the heavy rain disguises it.

And yet, she doesn't cry, only stares at me with that look on her face. That look of what . . . disbelief? fear?

"You're not real . . ." The whisper escapes her before her eyes close and she slumps over against the pavement.


End file.
